What Love Is
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. What is love? Is it flowers and chocolate? Is it a burning feeling in your chest? Or is it...something more? EdWin


**Author's Note: I wrote this last Valentine's Day. Normally, I try my hardest to pretend that Valentine's Day doesn't exist, because to me it stands for everything that everyone thinks love is, all the fake Hollywood-ized romance. But this time, I was listening to "Hey There Delilah" by Plain White T's, and somehow I just got this urge to write a fic where Ed tells us what love is all about. I also used Linkin Park's "Valentine's Day" for inspiration; in fact, the last line is taken from that song. Enjoy, even if it's not Valentine's Day yet!**

When I was a teenager, I thought I knew what love is. I thought I saw love everywhere on Valentine's Day. Couples walking hand-in-hand, kissing, hugging, flowers, heart-shaped candy, those chocolates you buy in a red heart-shaped box. I observed these things as the years went by – first with disgust, then discomfort, then a strange mixture of fear and longing as I wondered what I would do if I was one of those smitten men walking along the street hand-in-hand with some beautiful woman.

When I was in my early twenties, I thought I knew what love is. I remember my gradual realization that yes, Winry is more to me than just a childhood friend. It was odd, after all those times of insisting that we were only friends, to stand on her front porch and look into her blue eyes...and know that I love her. It took me a while to dredge up the nerve to tell her, but finally I did. On the second morning after I arrived, while Winry was putting the final touches on my arm, I lay on my stomach with my right arm stretched out straight and my chin resting on my left arm. I mumbled into the crook of my arm, "Winry...I love you."

The wrench stopped, the entire room fell silent. I couldn't even hear the birds chirping outside, but that might just have been because my blood was pounding in my ears. After two seconds that seemed like hours, I felt her warm hand on my bare shoulder, and heard her whisper, "I love you too."

I felt a sudden drop of wetness fall onto the middle of my back, and I craned my neck around in surprise to find that Winry was crying.

"Tears of happiness," she whispered, smiling through her tears. Then she hastily wiped her eyes and returned to my arm. I smiled, resting my head on my left hand.

When I asked Winry to marry me soon after, I thought I knew what love is. I thought the aching, throbbing feeling in my chest would never cease, that it would carry me through the rest of my life with Winry. I thought the pleasantly mushy-gooshy feeling that emerged every time I looked at her would put an end to all our arguments. I couldn't foresee any problems marrying her would arouse. I could only think of how happy I would be if she was mine, and I thought that's what love is.

When I stood before the altar, sealing it all with a kiss, I thought I knew what love is. I thought the thumping of my heart, the tears that ran down Winry's cheeks, were love. The wedding cake, the dance with Winry in my arms, the ring clutching my finger and holding it tight, binding me.... I thought all these things were love. I thought the euphoria that filled me, that seemed to infect everyone around us, was love.

Three days into our honeymoon, I thought I knew what love is. I hadn't been so happy since the day I gave Al his body back, and this was a completely different sort of happiness. I could knock on the door to the Curtis residence and introduce Winry to my Master with the words, "Hello, Master. This is Winry, my wife." I thought it was love to savor those words like honey on my tongue. _My wife._ I thought love was the way Winry beamed back at me. I thought love was the feeling that swelled all through the house, that seemed to shimmer around the two of us wherever we went.

Even a year into our marriage, I thought I knew what love is. But I realize now that I had no clue whatsoever. All those years, I was mistaken. Oh, I loved Winry. I loved her very much in those years of ignorance. I just didn't realize the part of my heart filled with true love was not the part occupied with the soaring feeling in my chest.

It was a slow process, but gradually I realized what love is. Love is when I held Winry, offering silent comfort, after Granny Pinako died. Love is when, after a heated argument that nearly came to blows, I came back to her and apologized – and she forgave me. Love is when I held her hair out of the way and supported her shoulders, watching helplessly as her morning sickness worsened. Love is when I risked losing my job by choosing to stay with Winry for a year, to help with our newborn daughter. Love is when I sent my research to the assessment with Al, so that I could stay and take care of Nina as Winry carried our second daughter. Love is when I would call her every night from Central, just to tell her goodnight. Love is when Winry shouted at me because she was always "stuck here with the girls" while I "pranced about Central," and I restrained myself – though I was angry enough to hit something. Love is when I left "Uncle Al" to look after the girls, and the two of us went out for a whole day just to ourselves. Love is when I held her as she wept for our poor dead little Sara. Love is when I assured her it was _not_ her fault. Love is when I came home one day and told her that I was there to stay forever, that I had retired early with a sizable pension. Love is every time I have kissed her goodbye, every time we drag ourselves away from each other, and love is every time we meet.

I think it's a shame that it's taken me so long to truly understand what love is. Love is not a feeling. Love is a decision. The decision to care for someone as long as you live. The decision to care for someone, no matter your emotions or their actions. I wish young men these days could understand this; perhaps then there would be fewer divorces. Maybe Valentine's Day wouldn't be so filled with meaningless trifles like flowers and chocolate.

There's only one problem when you love someone: That Someone is mortal. So, day after day, I stand on top of this hill, looking down at the gravestone inscribed with my wife's name, and I wish I had understood what love is sooner. That wouldn't have kept her from dying, but I think I would have been able to savor the years better. The heart in this feeble old man's chest would be a little lighter, perhaps.

There are so many things that I 'should have' done. The fact remains that I did none of them, so I should just accept that, shouldn't I? Shouldn't I try to smile for my daughters, for my grandchildren at least? And most days I manage to, but not today. Not today, because I suddenly realize I never knew what it was like to be alone on a Valentine's Day.


End file.
